The Notebook
by cowboy bwan
Summary: Lillian Truscott, twenty-nine years old and engaged, a socialite, searching for answers she needed to know, and Miley Stewart, the dreamer, thirty-one, visited by the ghost that had come to dominate her life. Liley. AU.
1. Miracles

I've seen a number of people doing what I am - posting a novel, but fitting it to be a certain pairing, so I know I'm not the only one to do this. It looked interesting so I decided to give it a go. Hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **Hannah Montana and all items associated with are property of It's a Laugh Productions, Disney, et al. The Notebook is by Nicholas Sparks. There is no profit being gained from the content of this story and it is used solely for entertainment purposes.

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**The Notebook**

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**Miracles**

**--**

Who am I? And how, I wonder, will this story end?

The sun has come up and I am sitting by a window that is foggy with the breath of a life gone by. I'm a sight this morning: two shirts, heavy pants, a scarf wrapped twice around my neck and tucked into a thick sweater knitted by my daughter thirty birthdays ago. The thermostat in my room is set as high as it will go, and a smaller space heater sits directly behind me. It clicks and groans and spews hot air like a fairy-tale dragon, and still my body shivers with a cold that will never go away, a cold that has been eighty years in the making. Eighty years, I think sometimes, and despite my own acceptance of age, it still amazes me that I haven't been warm since George Bush was president. I wonder if this is how it is for everyone my age.

My life? It isn't easy to explain. It has not been the rip-roaring spectacular I fancied it would be, but neither have I burrowed around with the gophers. I suppose it has most resembled a blue-chip stock: fairly stable, more ups than downs, and gradually trending upward over time. A good buy, a lucky buy, and I've learned that not everyone can say this about his life. But do not be misled. I am nothing special; of this I am sure. I am a common woman with common thoughts, and I've led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten, but I've loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough.

The romantics would call this a love story, the cynics would call it a tragedy. In my mind it's a little bit of both, and no matter how you choose to view it in the end, it does not change that fact that it involves a great deal of my life and the path I've chosen to follow. I have no complaints about my path and the places it has taken me; enough complaints to fill a circus tent about other things, maybe, but the path I've chosen has always been the right one, and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Time, unfortunately, doesn't make it easy to stay on course. The path is straight as ever, but now it is strewn with the rocks and gravel that accumulate over a lifetime. Until three years ago it would have been easy to ignore, but it's impossible now. There is a sickness rolling through my body; I'm neither strong nor healthy, and my days are spent like an old party balloon: listless, spongy, and growing softer over time.

I cough, and through squinted eyes I check my watch. I realize it is time to go. I stand from my seat by the window and shuffle across the room, stopping at the desk to pick up the notebook I have read a hundred times. I do not glance through it. Instead I slip in beneath my arm and continue on my way to the place I must go.

I walk on tiled floors, white in color and speckled with gray. Like my hair and the hair of most people here, though I'm the only one in the hallway this morning. They are in their rooms, alone except for television, but they, like me, are used to it. A person can get used to anything, if given enough time.

I hear the muffled sounds of crying in the distance and know exactly who is making those sounds. Then the nurses see me and we smile at each other and exchange greetings. They are my friends and we talk often, but I am sure they wonder about me and the things that I go through every day. I listen as they begin to whisper among themselves as I pass. "There she goes again," I hear, "I hope it turns out well." But they nothing directly to me about it. I'm sure they think it would hurt me to talk about it so early in the morning, and knowing myself as I do, I think they're probably right.

A minute later, I reach the room. The door has been propped open for me, as it usually is. There are two others in the room, and they too smile at me as I enter. "Good morning," they say with cheery voices, and I take a moment to ask about the kids and the schools and upcoming vacations. We talk above the crying for a minute or so. They do not seem to notice; they have become numb to it, but then again, so have I.

Afterward I sit in the chair that has come to be shaped like me. They are finishing up now; her clothes are on, but still she is crying. It will become quieter after they leave, I know. The excitement of the morning always upsets her, and today is no exception. Finally the shade is opened and the nurses walk out. Both of them touch me and smile as they walk by. I wonder what this means.

I sit for just a second and stare at her, but she doesn't return the look. I understand, for she doesn't know who I am. I'm a stranger to her. Them, turning away, I bow my head and pray silently for the strength I know I will need. I have always been a firm believer in God and the power of prayer, though to be honest, my faith has made for a list of questions I definitely want answered after I'm gone.

Ready now. On go the glasses, out of my pocket comes a magnifier. I put it on the table for a moment while I open the notebook. It takes two licks on my gnarled finger to get the well-worn cover open to the first page. Then I put the magnifier in place.

There is always a moment right before I begin to ready the story when my mind churns, and I wonder, Will it happen today? I don't know, for I never know beforehand, and deep down it really doesn't matter. It's the possibility that keeps me going, not the guarantee, a sort of wager on my part. And though you may call me a dreamer or fool or any other thing, I believe that anything is possible.

I realize the odds, and science, are against me. But science is not the total answer, this I know, this I have learned in my lifetime. And that leaves me with the belief that miracles, no matter how inexplicable or unbelievable, are real and can occur without regard to the natural order of things. So once again, just as I do every day, I begin to read the notebook aloud, so that she can hear it, in the hope that the miracle that has come to dominate my life will once again prevail.

And maybe, just maybe, it will.

--

**To be continued.**


	2. Ghosts

I apologize for the long, slow start to this but it will pick up in the next chapter, I promise you. I have made some changes to this, the major ones being the physical features of the characters to match and also adding names in place of he/she, etc. It'd simply be too confusing if I used she for he when there was already a she. You'd have no idea who was doing what. So, really, nothing major.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hannah Montana. The Notebook is by Nicholas Sparks.

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**Ghosts**

It was early October 1946, and Miley Stewart watched the fading sun sink lower from the wrap-around porch of her plantation-style home. She liked to sit here in the evenings, especially after working hard all day, and let her thoughts wander without conscious direction. It was how she relaxed, a routine she'd learned from her father.

She especially liked to look at the trees and their reflections in the river. North Carolina trees are beautiful in deep autumn: greens, yellows, reds, oranges, every shade in between. Their dazzling colors glow with the sun, and for the hundredth time, Miley Stewart wondered if the original owners of the house had spent their evenings thinking the same things.

The house was built in 1772, making it one of the oldest, as well as the largest, homes in New Bern. Originally, it was the main house on a working plantation, and she had bought it right after the war ended and had spent the last eleven months and a small fortune repairing it. The reporter from the Raleigh paper had done an article on it a few weeks ago and said it was one of the finest restorations he'd ever seen. At least the house was. The remaining property was another story, and that was where she'd spent most of the day.

The home sat on twelve acres adjacent to Brices Creek, and she'd worked on the wooden fence that lined the other three sides of the property, checking for dry rot or termites, replacing posts when she had to. She still had more work to do on it, especially the west side, and as she'd put the tools away earlier she'd made a mental note to call and have some more lumber delivered. She'd gone into the house, drunk a glass of sweet tea, then showered. She always showered at the end of the day, the water washing away both dirt and fatigue.

Afterward, she'd combed her hair, put on some faded jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt, poured herself another glass of sweet tea, and gone back to the porch, where she sat every day at this time.

She stretched her arms above his head, then out to the sides, rolling her shoulders as she completed the routine. She felt good and clean now, fresh. Her muscles were tired and she knew she'd be a little sore tomorrow, but she was pleased that she had accomplished most of what she had wanted to do.

Miley reached for her guitar, remembering her father as she did so, thinking how much she missed him. She strummed once, adjusted the tension on two strings, then strummed again. This time it sounded about right, and she began to play. Soft music, quiet music. She hummed for a little while at first, then began to sing as night came down around her. She played and sang until the sun was gone and the sky was black.

It was a little after seven when she quit, and she settled back into her chair and began to rock. By habit, she looked upward and saw Orion and the Big Dipper, Gemini and the Pole Star, twinkling in the autumn sky.

She started to run the numbers in her head, then stopped. She knew she'd spent almost her entire savings on the house and would have to find a job again soon, but she pushed the thought away and decided to enjoy the remaining months of restoration without worrying about it. It would work out for her, she knew; it always did. Besides, thinking about money usually bored her. Early on, she'd learned to enjoy simple things, things that couldn't be bought, and she had a hard time understanding people who felt otherwise. It was another trait she got from her father.

Clem, her hound dog, came up to her then and nuzzled her hand before lying down at her feet. "Hey, girl, how're you doing?" she asked as she patted her head, and she whined softly, her soft round eyes peering upward. A car accident had taken her leg, but she still moved well enough and kept him company on quiet nights like these.

She was thirty-one now, not too old, but old enough to be lonely. She hadn't dated since she'd been back here, hadn't met anyone who remotely interested her. It was her own fault, she knew. There was something that kept a distance between her and any man who started to get close, something she wasn't sure she could change even if she tried. And sometimes in the moments right before sleep came, she wondered if she was destined to be alone forever.

The evening passed, staying warm, nice. Miley listened to the crickets and the rustling leaves, thinking that the sound of nature was more real and aroused more emotion than things like cars and planes. Natural things gave back more than they took, and their sounds always brought her back to the way man was supposed to be. There were times during the war, especially after a major engagement, when she had often thought about these simple sounds. "It'll keep you from going crazy," her father told her the day she'd shipped out. "It's God's music and it'll take you home."

She finished her tea, went inside, found a book, then turned on the porch light on her way back out. After sitting down again, she looked at the book. It was old, the cover was torn, and the pages were stained with mud and water. It was _Leaves of Grass_ by Walt Whitman, and she had carried it with her throughout the war. It had even taken a bullet for her once.

She rubbed the cover, dusting it off just a little. Then she let the book open randomly and read the words in front of her:

This is thy hour O soul, thy free flight  
into the wordless,  
Away from books, away from art the day  
erased, the lesson done,  
Thee fully emerging, silent, gazing,  
pondering the themes thou lovest best,  
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

She smiled to herself. For some reason Whitman always reminded her of New Bern, and she was glad she'd come back. Though she'd been away for almost fourteen years, this was home and she knew a lot of people here, most of them from her youth. It wasn't surprising. Like so many southern towns, the people who lived here never changed, they just grew a bit older.

Her best friend these days was Gus, a seventy-year-old black man who lived down the road. They had met a couple of weeks after Miley bought the house, when Gus had shown up with some homemade liquor and Brunswick stew, and the two had spent their first evening together getting drunk and telling stories.

Now Gus would always show up a couple of nights a week, usually around eight. With four kids and eleven grandchildren in the house, he needed to get out of the house now and then, and Miley couldn't blame him. Usually Gus would bring his harmonica, and after talking for a little while, they'd play a few songs together. Sometimes they played for hours.

She'd come to regard Gus as family. There really wasn't anyone else, at least not since her father died last year. She was an only child; her mother had died of influenza when she was two, and though she had wanted to at one time, she had never married.

But she had been in love once, that she knew. Once and only once, and a long time ago. And it had changed her forever. Perfect love did that to a person, and this had been perfect.

Coastal clouds slowly began to roll across the evening sky, turning silver with the reflection of the moon. As they thickened, she leaned her head back and rested it against the rocking chair. Her legs moved automatically, keeping a steady rhythm, and as she did most evenings, she felt her mind drifting back to a warm evening like this fourteen years ago.

It was just after graduation 1932, the opening night of the Neuse River Festival. The town was out in full, enjoying the barbecue and games of chance. It was humid that night – for some reason she remembered that clearly. She arrived alone, and as she strolled through the crowd, looking for friends, she saw Jake and Sarah, two people she'd grown up with, talking to a girl she'd never seen before. She was pretty, Miley remembered thinking, and when she finally joined them, she looked at her with a pair of hazy eyes that kept on coming. "Hi," she'd said simply as she offered her hand, "Jacob's told me a lot about you."

An ordinary beginning, something that would have been forgotten had it been anyone but her. But as Miley shook her hand and met those striking sapphire eyes, she knew before she'd taken her next breath that she was the one she could spent the rest of her life looking for but never find again. She seemed that good, that perfect, while a summer wind blew through the trees.

From there, it went like a tornado wind. Jake told Miley she was spending the summer in New Bern with her family because her father worked for R. J. Reynolds, and though Miley only nodded, the way she was looking at Miley made her silence seem okay. Jake laughed then, because he knew what was happening, and Sarah suggested they get some cherry Cokes, and the four of them stayed at the festival until the crowds were thin and everything closed up for the night.

They met the following day, and the day after that, and they soon became inseparable. Every morning but Sunday when she had to go to church, she would finish her chores as quickly as possible, then make a straight line to Fort Totten Park, where she'd be waiting for her. Because she was a newcomer and hadn't spent time in a small town before, they spent their days doing things that were completely new to her. Miley taught her how to bait a line and fish the shallows for largemouth bass and took her exploring through the backwoods of the Croatan Forest. They rode in canoes and watched summer thunderstorms, and to Miley it seemed as though they'd always know each other.

But she learned things as well. At the town dance in the tobacco barn, it was she who taught Miley how to waltz and do the Charleston, and though they stumbled through the first few songs, her patience with Miley eventually paid off, and they danced together until the music ended. Miley walked her home afterward, and when they paused on the porch after saying good night, Miley kissed her for the first time and wondered why she had waited as long as she had. Later in the summer Miley brought her to this house, looked past the decay, and told her that one day she was going to own it and fix it up. They spent hours together talking about their dreams – Miley's of seeing the world, hers of being an artist – and on a humid night in August, they both lost their virginity. When she left three weeks later, she took a piece of Miley and the rest of the summer with her. Miley watched her leave town on an early rainy morning, watched through eyes that hadn't slept the night before, then went home and packed a bag. She spent the next week along on Harkers Island.

Miley ran her hands through her hair and checked her watch. Eight-twelve. She got up and walked to the front of the house and looked up the road. Gus wasn't in sight, and Miley figured he wouldn't be coming. She went back to her rocker and sat again.

She remembered talking to Gus about her. The first time Miley mentioned her, Gus started to shake his head and laugh. "So that's the ghost you been running from." When asked what he meant, Gus said, "You know, the ghost, the memory. I been watchin' you, workin' day and night, slavin' so hard you barely have time to catch your breath. People do that for three reasons. Either they crazy, or stupid, or tryin' to forget. And with you, I knew you was tryin' to forget. I just didn't know what."

She thought about what Gus had said. Gus was right, of course. New Bern was haunted now. Haunted by the ghost of her memory. Miley saw her in Fort Totten Park, their place, every time she walked by. Either sitting on the bench or standing by the gate, always smiling, blond hair softly touching her shoulders, her eyes the color of sapphires. When she sat on the porch at night with her guitar, Miley saw her beside her, listening quietly as she played the music of her childhood.

She felt the same when he went to Gaston's Drug Store, or to the Masonic theater, or even when she strolled downtown. Everywhere she looked, Miley saw her image, saw things that brought her back to life.

It was odd, she knew that. She had grown up in New Bern. Spent her first seventeen years here. But when she thought about New Bern, she seemed to remember only the last summer, the summer they were together. Other memories were simply fragments, pieces here and there of growing up, and few, if any, evoked any feeling.

She had told Gus about it one night, and not only had Gus understood, but he had been the first to explain why. He said simply, "My daddy used to tell me that the first time you fall in love, it changes your life forever, and no matter how hard you try, the feelin' never goes away. This girl you been tellin' me about was your first love. And no matter what you do, she'll stay with you forever."

--

Earlier that evening and a hundred miles away, she sat alone on the porch swing of her parents' home, one leg crossed beneath her. The seat had been slightly damp when she sat down; rain had fallen earlier, hard and stinging, but the clouds were fading now and she looked past them, toward the stars, wondering if she'd made the right decision. She'd struggled with it for days 0 and had struggled with it some more this evening – but in the end, she knew she would never forgive herself is she let the opportunity slip away.

Oliver didn't know the real reason she left the following morning. The week before, she'd hinted to him that she might want to visit some antique shop near the coast. "It's just a couple of days," she said, "and besides, I need a break from planning the wedding." She felt bad about the lie but knew there was no way she could tell him the truth. Her leaving had nothing to do with him, and it wouldn't be fair of her to ask him to understand.

It was an easy drive from Raleigh, slightly more than two hours, and she arrived a little before eleven. She checked into a small inn downtown, hanging her dresses in the closet and putting everything else in the drawers. She had a quick lunch, asked the waitress for directions to the nearest antique stores, then spent the next few hours shopping. By four-thirty she was back in her room.

She sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone, and called Oliver. He couldn't speak long, he was due in court, but before they hung up she gave him the phone number where she was staying and promised to call the following day. Good, she thought while hanging up the phone. Routine conversation, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to make him suspicious.

She's known him for almost four years now; it was 1942 when they met, the world at war and America one year in. Everyone was doing their part, and she was volunteering at the hospital downtown. She was both needed and appreciated there, but it was more difficult than she'd expected. The first waves if wounded young soldiers were coming home, and she spent her days with broken people and shattered bodies. When Oliver, with all his easy charm, introduced himself at a Christmas party, she saw in him exactly what she needed: someone with confidence about the future and a sense of humor that drove all her fears away.

He was handsome, intelligent, and driven, a successful lawyer eight years older than she, and he pursued his job with passion, not only winning cases, but also making a name for himself. She understood his vigorous pursuit of success, for her father and most of the men she met in her social circle were the same way. Like them he'd been raised that way, and in the caste system of the South, family name and accomplishments were often the most important consideration in marriage. In some cases, they were the only consideration.

Though she had quietly rebelled against this idea since childhood and had dater a few men best described as reckless, she found herself drawn to Oliver's easy ways and had gradually come to love him. Despite the long hours he worked, he was good to her. He was a gentleman, both mature and responsible, and during those terrible periods of the war when she needed someone to hold her, he never once turned her away. She felt secure with him and knew he loved her as well, and that was why she accepted his proposal.

Thinking these things made her feel guilty about being here, and she knew she should pack her things and leave before she changed her mind. She had done it once before, long ago, and if she left now, she was sure she would never have the strength to return here again. She picked up her pocketbook, hesitated, and almost made it to the door. But coincidence had pushed her here, and she put the pocketbook down, again realizing that is she quit now, she would always wonder what would have happened. And she didn't think she could live with that.

She went to the bathroom and started a bath. After checking the temperature, she walked to the dresser, taking off her gold earrings as she crossed the room. She found her makeup bag, opened it, and pulled out a razor and a bar of soap, then undressed in front of the bureau.

She had been called beautiful since she was a young girl, and once she was naked, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her body was firm and well proportioned, breasts softly rounded, stomach flat, legs slim. She'd inherited her mother's high cheekbones, smooth skin, and blond hair, but her best feature was her own. She had "eyes like ocean waves," as Oliver liked to say.

Taking the razor and soap, she went to the bathroom again, turned off the faucet, set a towel where she could reach it, and stepped in gingerly.

She liked the way a bath relaxed her, and she slipped lower in the water. The day had been long and her back was tense, but she was pleased she had finished shopping so quickly. She had to go back to Raleigh with something tangible, and the things she had picked out would work fine. She made a mental note to find the names of some other stores in the Beaufort area, then suddenly doubted she would need to. Oliver wasn't the type to check up on her.

She reached for the soap, lathered up, and began to shave her legs. As she did, she thought about her parents and what they would think of her behavior. No doubt they would disapprove, especially her mother. Her mother had never really accepted what had happened the summer they'd spent here and wouldn't accept it now, no matter what reason she gave.

She soaked a while longer in the rub before finally getting out and toweling off. She went to the closet and looked for a dress, finally choosing a long yellow one that dipped slightly in the front, the kind of dress that was common in the South. She slipped it on and looked in the mirror, turning from side to side. It fir her well and made her look feminine, but she eventually decided against it and put it back on the hanger.

Instead she found a more casual, less revealing dress and put that on. Light blue with a touch of lace, it buttoned up in the front, and though it didn't look quite as nice as the first one, it conveyed an image she thought would be more appropriate.

She wore little makeup, just a touch of eye shadow and mascara to accent her eyes. Perfume next, not too much. She found a pair of smaller-hooped earrings, put those on, then slipped on the tan, low-heeled sandals she had been wearing earlier. She brushed her blond hair, pinned it up, and looked in the mirror. No, it was too much, she thought, and let it back down. Better.

When she was finished she stepped back and evaluated herself. She looked good: not too dressy, not too casual. She didn't want to overdo it. After all, she didn't know what to expect. It had been a long time – probably too long – and many different things could have happened, even things she didn't want to consider.

She looked down and saw her hands were shaking, and she laughed to herself. It was strange; she wasn't normally this nervous. Like Oliver, she had always been confident, even as a child. She remembered that it had been a problem at times, especially when she dated, because it had intimated most of the boys her age.

She found her pocketbook and car keys, then picked up the room key. She turned it over in her hand a couple of times, thinking, You've come this far, don't give up now, and almost left then, but instead sat on the bed again. She checked her watch. Almost six o' clock. She knew she had to leave in a few minutes – she didn't want to arrive after dark, but she needed a little more time.

"Damn," she whispered, "what am I doing here? I shouldn't be here. There's no reason for it," but once she said it she knew it wasn't true. There was something here. If nothing else, she would have her answer.

She opened up her pocket book and thumbed through it until she came to a folded-up piece of newspaper. After taking it out slowly, almost reverently, being careful not to rip it, she unfolded it and stared at it for a while. "This is why," she finally said to herself, "this is what it's all about."

--

Miley got up at five and kayaked for an hour up Brices Creek, as she usually did. When she finished, she changed into her work clothes, warmed some biscuits from the day before, grabbed a couple of apples, and washed her breakfast down with two cups of coffee.

She worked on the fencing again, repairing most of the posts that needed it. It was Indian summer, the temperature over eighty degrees, and by lunchtime she was hot and tired and glad for the break.

She ate at the creek because the mullets were jumping. She liked to watch them jump three or four times and glide through the air before vanishing into the brackish water. For some reason she had always been pleased by the fact that their instinct hadn't changed for thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of years.

Sometimes she wondered if man's instincts had changed in that time and always concluded that they hadn't. At least in the basic, most primal ways. As far as she could tell, man had always been aggressive, always striving to dominate, trying to control the world and everything in it. The war in Europe and Japan proved that.

She quit working a little after three and walked to a small shed that sat near her dock. She went in, found her fishing pole, a couple of lures, and some live crickets she kept on hand, then walked out to the dock, baited her hook, and cast her line.

Fishing always made her reflect on his life, and she did it now. After her mother died, she could remember spending her days in a dozen different homes, and for one reason or another, she stuttered badly as a child and was teased for it. She began to speak less and less, and by the age of five, the teachers thought she was retarded and recommended that she be pulled out of school.

Instead, his father took matters into his own hands. He kept her in school and afterward made her come to the lumberyard, where he worked, to haul and stack wood. "It's good that we spend some time together," he would say as they worked side by side, "just like my daddy and I did."

During their time together, her father would talk about birds and animals or tell stories and legends common to North Carolina. Within a few months Miley was speaking again, though not well, and her father decided to teach her to read with book of poetry. "Learn to read this aloud and you'll be able to say anything you want to." Her father had been right again, and by the following year, Miley had lost her stutter. But she continued to go to the lumberyard every day simply because her father was there, and in the evenings she would read the works of Whitman and Tennyson aloud as her father rocked beside her. She had been reading poetry ever since.

When she got a little older, she spent most of her weekends and vacations alone. She explored the Croatan Forest in her first canoe, following Brices Creek for twenty miles until she could go no farther, then hiked the remaining miles to the coast. Camping and exploring became her passion, and she spent hours in the forest, sitting beneath blackjack oak trees, whistling quietly, and playing her guitar for beavers and geese and wild blue herons. Poets knew that isolation in nature, far from people and things man-made, was good for the soul, and she'd always identified with poets.

Although she was quiet, years of heavy lifting at the lumberyard helped her excel in sports, and her athletic success led to popularity. She enjoyed the cheerleading and track meets, and though most of her teammates spent their free time together as well, she rarely joined them. An occasional person found her arrogant; most simply figured she had grown up a bit faster than anyone else. She had a few boyfriends in school, but none had ever made an impression on her. Except for one. And she came after graduation.

Lilly. Her Lilly.

She remembered talking to Jake about Lilly after they'd left the festival that first night, and Jake had laughed. Then he'd made two predictions: first, that they would fall in love, and second, that it wouldn't work out.

There was a slight tug at her line and Miley hoped for a largemouth bass, but the tugging eventually stopped, and after reeling her line in and checking the bait, she cast again.

Jake ended up being right on both accounts. Most of the summer, she had to make excuses to her parents whenever they wanted to see each other. It wasn't that they didn't like Miley – it was that she was from a different class, too poor, and they would never approve if their daughter became serious with someone like her. "I don't care what my parents think, I love you and always will," she would say. "We'll find a way to be together."

But in the end they couldn't. By early September the tobacco had been harvested and she had no choice but to return with her family to Winston-Salem. "Only the summer is over, Lilly, not us," Miley had said the morning she left. "We'll never be over." But they were. For a reason Miley didn't fully understand, the letters she wrote went unanswered.

Eventually she decided to leave New Bern to help get her off her mind, but also because the Depression made earning a living in New Bern almost impossible. She went first to Norfolk and worked at a shipyard for six months before she was laid off, then moved to New Jersey because she'd heard the economy wasn't so bad there.

She eventually found a job in the scrap yard, separating scrap metal from everything else. The owner, a Jewish man named Morris Goldman, was intent on collecting as much scrap metal as he could, convinced that a war was going to start in Europe and that America would be dragged in again. Miley, though, didn't care about the reason. She was just happy to have a job.

Her years in the lumberyard had toughened her to this type of labor, and she worked hard. Not only did it help her keep her mind off Lilly during the day, but it was something she felt she had to do. Her daddy had always said: "Give a day's work for a day's pay. Anything less is stealing." That attitude pleased his boss. "It's a shame you aren't Jewish," Goldman would say, "you're such a fine girl in so many other ways." It was the best compliment Goldman could give.

She continued to think about Lilly, especially at night. Miley wrote her once a month but never received a reply. Eventually she wrote a final letter and forced herself to accept the fact that the summer they'd spent with one another was the only thing they'd ever share.

Still, though, Lilly stayed with her. Three years after the last latter, Miley went to Winston-Salem in the hope of finding her. She went to her house, discovered that she had moved, and after talking to some neighbors, finally called RJR. The girl who answered the phone was new and didn't recognize the name, but she poked around the personnel files for her. She found out that Lilly's father had left the company and that no forwarding address was listed. That trip was the first and last time Miley ever looked for her.

For the next eight years, she worked for Goldman. At first she was one of the twelve employees, but as the years dragged on, the company grew, and she was promoted. By 1940 she had mastered the business and was running the entire operation, brokering the deals and managing a staff of thirty. The yard had become the largest scrap metal dealer on the East Coast.

During that time, she dated a few different women. She became very serious with one, a waitress from the local diner with deep blue eyes and silky black hair. Although they dated for two years and had many good times together, she never came to feel the same way about her as she did about Lilly.

But neither did she forget her. She was a few years older than Miley was, and it was she who taught her the ways to please a woman, the places to touch and kiss, where to linger, the things to whisper. They would sometimes spend an entire day in bed, holding each other and making the kind of love that fully satisfied both of them.

She had known that they wouldn't be together forever. Toward the end of their relationship she'd told Miley once, "I wish I could give you what you're looking for, but I don't know what it is. There's a part of you that you keep closed off from everyone, including me. It's as if I'm not the one you're really with. Your mind is on someone else."

Miley tried to deny it, but she didn't believe her. "I'm a woman – I know these things. When you look at me sometimes, I know you're seeing someone else. It's like you keep waiting for her to pop out of thin air and take you away from all this…" A month later she visited Miley at work and told her she'd met someone else. She understood. They parted as friends, and the following year Miley received a postcard from her saying she was married. Miley hadn't heard from her since.

While she was in New Jersey, Miley would visit her father once a year around Christmas. They'd spend some time fishing and talking, and once in a while they'd take a trip to the coast to go camping on the Outer Banks near Ocracoke.

In December 1941, when she was twenty-six, the war began, just as Goldman had predicted. Miley walked into his office the following month and informed Goldman of her intent to enlist, then returned to New Bern to say good-bye to her father. Five weeks later she found herself in boot camp. While there, she received a letter from Goldman thanking her for her work, together with a certificate entitling her to a small percentage of the scrap yard if it ever sold. "I couldn't have done it without you," the letter said. "You're the finest young woman who ever worked for me, even if you aren't Jewish."

She spent her next three years with Patton's Third Army, tramping through deserts in North Africa and forests in Europe with thirty pounds on her back, her infantry unit never far from action. She watched her friends die around her; watched as some of them were buried thousands of miles from home. Once, while hiding in a foxhole near the Rhine, she imagined she saw Lilly watching over her.

She remembered the war ending in Europe, then a few months later in Japan. Just before she was discharged, she received a letter from a lawyer in New Jersey representing Morris Goldman. Upon meeting the lawyer, she found out that Goldman had died a year earlier and his estate liquidated. The business had been sold, and Miley was given a check for almost seventy thousand dollars. For some reason she was oddly unexcited about it.

The following week she returned to New Bern and bought the house. She remembered bringing her father around later, showing him what she was going to do, pointing out the changes she intended to make. Her father seemed weak as he walked around, coughing and wheezing. Miley was concerned, but her father told her not to worry, assuring her that he had the flu.

Less than one month later her father had died of pneumonia and was buried next to his wife in the local cemetery. Miley tried to stop by regularly to leave some flowers; occasionally she left a note. And every night without fail she took a moment to remember him, then said a prayer for the man who'd taught her everything that mattered.

After reeling in the line, she put the gear away and went back to the house. Her neighbor, Martha Shaw, was there to thank her, bringing three loaves of homemade bread and some biscuits in appreciation for what Miley had done. Her husband had been killed in the war, leaving her with three children and a tired shack of a house to raise them in. Winter was coming, and Miley had spent a few days at her place last week repairing her roof, replacing broken windows and sealing the others, and fixing her woodstove. Hopefully, it would be enough to get them through.

Once she'd left, Miley got in her battered Dodge truck and went to see Gus. She always stopped there when she was going to the store because Gus's family didn't have a car. One of the daughters hopped up and rode with her, and they did their shopping at Capers General Store. When she got home she didn't unpack the groceries right away. Instead she showered, found a Budweiser and a book by Dylan Thomas, and went to sit on the porch.

--

She still had trouble believing it, even as she held the proof in her hands. It had been in the newspaper at her parents' house three Sundays ago. She had gone to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, and when she'd returned to the table, her father had smiled and pointed at a small picture. "Remember this?"

He handed her the paper, and after an uninterested first glance, something in the picture caught her eye and she took a closer look. "It can't be," she whispered, and when her father looked down at her curiously, she ignored him, sat down, and read the article without speaking. She vaguely remembered her mother coming to the table and sitting opposite her, and when she finally put aside the paper, her mother was staring at her with the same expression her father had just moments before.

"Are you okay?" her mother asked over her coffee cup. "You look a little pale." She didn't answer right away, she couldn't, and it was then that she'd noticed her hands were shaking. That had been when it started.

"And here it will end, one way or the other," she whispered again. She refolded the scrap of paper and put it back, remembering that she had left her parents' home later that day with the paper so she could cut out the article. She read it again before she went to bed that night, trying to fathom the coincidence, and read it again the next morning as if to make sure the whole thing wasn't a dream. And now, after three weeks of long walks alone, after three weeks of distraction, it was the reason she'd come.

When asked, she said her erratic behavior was due to stress. It was the perfect excuse; everyone understood, including Oliver, and that's why he hadn't argued when she'd wanted to get away for a couple of days. The wedding plans were stressful to everyone involved. Almost five hundred people were invited, including the governor, one senator, and the ambassador to Peru. It was too much, in her opinion, but their engagement was news and had dominated the social pages since they had announced their plans six months ago. Occasionally she felt like running away with Oliver to get married without the fuss. But she knew he wouldn't agree; like the aspiring politician he was, he loved being the center of attention.

She took a deep breath and stood again. "It's now or never," she whispered, then picked up her things and went to the door. She paused only slightly before opening it and going downstairs. The manager smiled as she walked by, and she could feel his eyes on her as she left and went to her car. She slipped behind the wheel, looked at herself on last time, and then started the ending and turned right onto Front Street.

She wasn't surprised that she still knew her way around town so well. Even though she hadn't been here in years, it wasn't large and she navigated the streets easily. After crossing the Trent River on an old-fashioned drawbridge, she turned onto a gravel road and began the final leg of her journey.

It was beautiful here in the low country, as it always had been. Unlike the Piedmont area where she grew up, the land was flat, but it had the same silty, fertile soil that was ideal for cotton and tobacco. Those two crops and timber kept the towns alive in this part of the state, and as she drove along the road outside of town, she saw the beauty that had first attracted people to this region.

To her, it hadn't changed at all. Broken sunlight passed through water oaks and hickory trees a hundred feet tall, illuminating the colors of fall. On her left, a river the color of iron veered toward the road and then turned away before giving up its life to a different, larger river another mile ahead. The gravel road itself would its way between antebellum farms, and she knew that for some of the farmers, life hadn't changed since before their grandparents were born. The constancy of the place brought back a flood of memories, and she felt her insides tighten as one by one she recognized landmarks she'd long since forgotten.

The sun hung just above the trees on her left, and as she rounded a curve, she passed an old church, abandoned for years but still standing. She had explored it that summer, looking for souvenirs from the War between the States, and as her car passed by, the memories of that day became stronger, as if they'd just happened yesterday.

A majestic oak tree on the banks of the river came into view next, and the memories became more intense. It looked the same as it had back then, branches low and thick, stretching horizontally along the ground with Spanish moss draped over the limbs like a veil. Lilly remembered sitting beneath the tree on a hot July day with someone who looked at her with a longing that took everything else away. And it had been at that moment that she'd first fallen in love.

She was two years older than Lilly was, and as Lilly drove along this roadway-in-time, she slowly came into focus once again. She always looked older than he really was, Lilly remembered thinking. Her appearance was that of someone slightly weathered, almost like a farmer coming home after hours in the field. She had the callused hands and broad shoulders that came to those who worked hard for a living, and the first faint lines were beginning to form around the light eyes that seemed to read her every thought.

She was tall and strong, with curly light brown hair and beautiful in her own way, but it was her voice that Lilly remembered most of all. She had read to Lilly that day; read to her as they lay in the grass beneath the tree with an accent that was soft and fluent, almost musical in quality. It was the kind of voice that belonged on radio, and it seemed to hang in the air when she read to Lilly. Lilly remembered closing her eyes, listening closely, and letting the words she was reading touch her soul:

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at  
the runaway sun…

Se thumbed through old books with dog-eared pages, books she'd read a hundred times. She'd read for a while, then stop, and the two of them would talk. Lilly would tell her what she wanted in her life – her hopes and dreams for the future – and she would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true. And the way she said it made Lilly believe her, and Lilly knew then how much she meant to her. Occasionally, when Lilly asked, she would talk about herself or explain why she had chosen a particular poem and what she thought of it, and at other times she just studied Lilly in that intense way of hers.

They watched the sun go down and ate together under the stars. It was getting late by then, and Lilly knew her parents would be furious if they knew where she was. At that moment, though, it really didn't matter to her. All Lilly could think about was how special the day had been, how special she was, and as they started toward her house a few minutes later, she took Lilly's hand in hers and Lilly felt the way it warmed her the whole way back.

Another turn in the road and Lilly finally saw it in the distance. The house had changed dramatically from what she remembered. She slowed the car as she approached, turning into the long, tree-lined dirt drive that led to the beacon that had summoned her from Raleigh.

Lilly drove slowly, looking toward the house, and took a deep breath when she saw her on the porch, watching her car. She was dressed casually. From a distance, she looked the same as she had back then. For a moment, when the light of the sun was behind him, she almost seemed to vanish into the scenery.

Her car continued forward, rolling slowly, then finally stopped beneath an oak tree that shaded the front of the house. Lilly turned the key, never taking her eyes from her, and the engine sputtered to a halt.

She stepped off the porch and began to approach Lilly, walking easily, then suddenly stopped cold as Lilly emerged from the car. For a long time all they could do was stare at each other without moving.

Lillian Truscott, twenty-nine years old and engaged, a socialite, searching for answers she needed to know, and Miley Stewart, the dreamer, thirty-one, visited by the ghost that had come to dominate her life.

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**to be continued**

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**Let me know if it gets a little confusing… and would you prefer I split the chapters up into two parts, or do you not mind the length?**


	3. Reunion I

I decided to get this up sooner rather than later, simply because the last chapter was kind of… you know, and some of you probably fell asleep halfway through. I probably won't take too long to get the rest of this up, maybe a week at most, because I don't want to drag this out. I kind of just want to get this one out and see how it does. I decided to split the chapters up because each chapter is like 30 pages and it's just too hard for me to do that.

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**Reunion**

Neither one of them moved as they faced each other.

Miley hadn't said anything, her muscles seemed frozen, and for a second Lilly thought she didn't recognize her. Suddenly she felt guilty about showing up this way, without warning, and this made it harder. She had thought it would be easier somehow, that she would know what to say. But she didn't Everything that came into her head seemed inappropriate, somehow lacking.

Thoughts of the summer they'd shared came back to Lilly, and as she stared at Miley, she noticed how little she'd changed since she'd last seen her. Miley looked good, she thought. With her shirt tucked loosely into old faded jeans, Lilly could see the same shoulders she remembered, tapering down to narrow hips and a flat stomach. Miley was tan, too, as if she'd worked outside all summer, and though her hair was a little longer and darker than she remembered, she looked the same as she did when Lilly had known her last.

When Lilly was finally ready, she took a deep breath and smiled.

"Hello, Miley. It's good to see you again."

Her comment startled Miley, and she looked at Lilly with amazement in her eyes. Then, after shaking her head, she slowly began to smile.

"You too…" She stammered. She brought her hand to her chin. "It's really you, isn't it? I can't believe it…"

Lilly heard the shock in her voice as she spoke, and surprising her, it all came together – being here, seeing Miley. She felt something twitch inside, something deep and old, something that made her dizzy for just a second.

She caught herself fighting for control. She hadn't expected this to happen, didn't want it to happen. She was engaged now. She hadn't come here for this… yet…

Yet…

Yet the feeling went on despite herself, and for a brief moment she felt fifteen again. Felt as she hadn't in years, as if all her dreams could still come true.

Felt as though she'd finally come home.

Without another word they came together, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and Miley put her arms around Lilly, drawing her close. They held each other tightly, making it real, both of them letting the fourteen years of separation dissolve in the deepening twilight.

They stayed like that for a long time before Lilly finally pulled back to look up at Miley. Up close, Lilly could see the changes she hadn't noticed at first. Miley was a woman now, and her face had lost the softness of youth. The faint lines around her eyes had deepened, and there was a scar on her chin that hadn't been there before. There was a new edge to her; she seemed less innocent, more cautious, and yet the way Miley was holding her made Lilly realize how much she'd missed her since she'd seen Miley last.

Lilly's eyes brimmed with tears as they released each other. She laughed nervously under her breath while wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes.

"Are you okay?" Miley asked, a thousand other questions on her face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cry…"

"It's okay," she said smiling, "I still can't believe it's you. How did you find me?"

Lilly stepped back, trying to compose herself, wiping away the last of her tears.

"I saw the story on the house in the Raleigh paper a couple of weeks ago, and I had to come see you again."

Miley smiled broadly. "I'm glad you did." She stepped back just a bit. "God, you look fantastic. You're even prettier now than you were then."

Lilly felt the blood in her face. Just like fourteen years ago.

"Thank you. You look great, too." And she did, no doubt about it. The years had treated Miley well.

"So what have you been up to? Why are you here?"

Miley's question brought Lilly back to the present, making her realize what could happen if she wasn't careful. Don't let this get out of hand, she told herself; the longer it goes on, the harder it's going to be. And she didn't want it to get any harder.

But God, those eyes. Those soft, light eyes.

Lilly turned and took a deep breath, wondering how to say it, and when she started, her voice was quiet. "Miley, before you get the wrong idea, I did want to see you again, but there's more to it than just that." She paused for a second. "I came here for a reason. There's something I have to tell you."

"What is it?"

Lilly looked away and didn't answer for a moment, surprised that she couldn't tell Miley just yet. In the silence, Miley felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Whatever it was, was bad.

"I don't know how to say it. I thought I did at first, but now I'm not so sure…"

The air was suddenly rattled by the sharp cry of a raccoon, and Clem came out from under the porch, barking gruffly. Both of them turned at the commotion, and Lilly was glad for the distraction.

"Is he yours?" she asked.

Miley nodded, feeling the tightness in her stomach. "Actually, it's a she. Clementine's her name. But yeah, she's all mine." They both watched as Clem shook her head, stretched, then wandered toward the sounds. Lilly's eyes widened just a bit when she saw her limp away.

"What happened to her leg?" she asked, stalling for time.

"Hit by a car a few months back. Doc Harrison, the vet, called me to see if I wanted her because her owner didn't anymore. After I saw what had happened, I guess I just couldn't let her be put down."

"You were always nice like that," Lilly said, trying to relax. She paused, then looked past Miley toward the house. "You did a wonderful job restoring it. It looks perfect, just like I knew it would someday."

Miley turned her head in the same direction as Lilly's while she wondered about the small talk and what Lilly was holding back.

"Thanks, that's nice of you. It was quite a project, though. I don't know if I would do it again."

"Of course you would," Lilly said. She knew exactly how Miley felt about this place. But then, Lilly knew how Miley felt about everything – or at least she had a long time ago.

And with that thought, Lilly realized how much had changed since then. They were strangers now; she could tell by looking at Miley. Could tell that fourteen years apart was a long time. Too long.

"What is it, Lilly?" Miley turned to her, compelling Lilly to look, but she continued to stare at the house.

"I'm being rather silly, aren't I?" she asked, trying to smile.

"What do you mean?"

"This whole thing. Showing up out of the blue, you not knowing what I want to say. You must think I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy," Miley said gently. She reached for Lilly's hand, and Lilly let her hold it as they stood next to one another. He went on: "Even though I don't know why, I can see this is hard for you. Why don't we go for a walk?"

"Like we used to?"

"Why not? I think we both could use one."

Lilly hesitated and looked toward Miley's front door. "Do you need to tell anyone?"

Miley shook her head. "No, there's no one to tell. It's just me and Clem."

Even though she'd asked, Lilly had suspected there wouldn't be anyone else, and inside she didn't know how to feel about that. But it did make what she wanted to say a little harder. It would have been easier if there was someone else.

They started toward the river and turned on a path near the bank. Lilly let go of Miley's hand, surprising Miley, and walked on with just enough distance between them so they couldn't accidentally touch.

Miley looked at her. She was pretty still, with thick hair and soft eyes, and she moved so gracefully that it almost seemed as though she were gliding. Miley had seen beautiful women before, though, women who caught her eye, but to her mind they usually lacked the traits that he found most desirable. Traits like intelligence, confidence, strength of spirit, passion, traits that inspired others to greatness, traits she aspired to herself.

Lilly had those traits, she knew, and as they walked now, Miley sensed them once again lingering beneath the surface. "A living poem" has always been the words that came to mind when she tried to describe Lilly to others.

"How long have you been back here?" Lilly asked as the path gave way to a small grass hill.

"Since last December. I worked up north for a while, then spent the last three years in Europe."

Lilly looked at Miley with question in her eyes. "The war?"

Miley nodded and Lilly went on.

"I thought you might be there. I'm glad you made it out okay."

"Me too," Miley said.

"Are you glad to be back home?"

"Yeah. My roots are here. This is where I'm supposed to be." Miley paused. "But what about you?" She asked the question softly, suspecting the worst.

It was a long moment before Lilly answered. "I'm engaged."

Miley looked down when she said it, suddenly feeling just a bit weaker. So that was it. That's what Lilly needed to tell her.

"Congratulations," Miley finally said, wondering how convincing she sounded. "What's the big day?"

"Three weeks from Saturday. Oliver wanted a November wedding."

"Oliver?"

"Oliver Oken Jr. My fiancé."

Miley nodded, not surprised. The Okens were one of the most powerful and influential families in the state. Cotton money. Unlike that of her own father, the death of Oliver Oken St. had made the front page of the newspaper. "I've heard of them. His father built quite a business. Did Oliver take over for him?"

Lilly shook her head. "No, he's a lawyer. He had his own practice downtown."

"With his name, he must be busy."

"He is. He works a lot."

Miley thought she heard something in Lilly's tone, and the next question came automatically. "Does he treat you well?"

Lilly didn't answer right away, as if she were considering the question for the first time. Then:

"Yes. He's a good man, Miley. You would like him."

Lilly's voice was distant when she answered, or at least Miley thought it was. Miley wondered if it was just her mind playing tricks on her.

"How's your daddy doing?" Lilly asked.

"He passed on earlier this year, right after I got back."

"I'm sorry," Lilly said softly, knowing how much he had meant to Miley.

Miley nodded, and the two walked in silence for a moment.

They reached the top of the hill and stopped. The oak tree was in the distance, with the sun glowing orange behind it. Lilly could feel Miley's eyes on her as she stared in that direction.

"A lot of memories there, Lilly."

Lilly smiled. "I know. I saw it when I came in. Do you remember the day we spent there?"

"Yes," Miley answered, volunteering no more.

"Do you ever think about it?"

"Sometimes," she said. "Usually when I'm working out this way. It sits on my property now."

"You bought it?"

"I just couldn't bear to see it turned into kitchen cabinets."

Lilly laughed under her breath, feeling strangely pleased about that. "Do you still read poetry?"

Miley nodded. "Yeah. I never stopped. I guess it's in my blood."

"Do you know, you're the only poet I've ever met."

"I'm no poet. I read, but I can't write a verse. I've tried."

"You're still a poet, Miley Ray Stewart." Lilly's voice softened. "I still think about it a lot. It was the first time anyone ever read poetry to me before. In fact, it's the only time."

Her comment made both of them drift back and remember as they slowly circled back to the house, following a new path that passed near the dock. As the sun dropped a little lower and the sky turned orange, Miley asked: "So, how long are you staying?"

"I don't know. Not long. Maybe until tomorrow or the next day."

"If your fiancé here on business?"

Lilly shook her head. "No, he's still in Raleigh."

Miley raised her eyebrows. "Does he know you're here?"

Lilly shook her head again and answered slowly. "No. I told him I was looking for antiques. He wouldn't understand my coming here."

Miley was a little surprised by her answer. It was one thing to come and visit, but it was an entirely different matter to hide the truth from her fiancé.

"You didn't have to come here to tell me you were engaged. You could have written me instead, or even called."

"I know. But for some reason, I had to do it in person."

"Why?"

Lilly hesitated. "I don't know…" she said, trailing off, and the way she said it made Miley believe her. The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked in silence for a few steps. Then Miley asked:

"Lilly, do you love him?"

She answered automatically. "Yes, I love him"

The words hurt. But again, Miley thought she heard something in Lilly's tone, as if she were saying it to convince herself. Miley stopped and gently took Lilly's shoulder in her hands, making Lilly face her. The fading sunlight reflected in Lilly's eyes as she spoke.

"If you're happy, Lilly, and you love him, I won't try to stop you from going back to him. But if there's a part of you that isn't sure, then don't do it. This isn't the kind of thing you can go into halfway."

Lilly's answer came almost too quickly. "I'm making the right decision, Miley."

Miley stared for a second, wondering if she believed her. Then she nodded and the two began to walk again. After a moment Miley said: "I'm not making this easy for you, am I?"

Lilly smiled a little. "It's okay. I really can't blame you."

"I'm sorry anyway."

"Don't be. There's no reason to be sorry. I'm the one who should be apologizing. Maybe I should have written."

Miley shook her head. "To be honest, I'm still glad you came. Despite everything. It's good to see you again."

"Thank you, Miley."

"Do you think it would be possible to start over?"

Lilly looked at her curiously.

"You were the best friend I ever had, Lilly. I'd still like to be friends, even if you are engaged, and even if it is just for a couple of days. How about we just kind of get to know each other again?"

Lilly thought about it, thought about staying or leaving, and decided that since he knew about her engagement, it would probably be all right. Or at least not wrong. She smiled slightly and nodded.

"I'd like that."

"Good, How about dinner? I know a place that serves the best crab in town."

"Sounds great. Where?"

"My house. I've had some traps out all week, and I saw that I had some good ones caged a couple days ago. Do you mind?"

"No, that sounds fine."

Miley smiled and pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. "Great. They're at the dock. I'll just be a couple of minutes."

Lilly watched her walk away and noticed the tension she'd felt when telling Miley about her engagement was beginning to fade. Closing her eyes, she ran her hands through her hair and let the light breeze fan her cheek. She took a deep breath and held it in for a moment, feeling the muscles in her shoulders further relax as she exhaled. Finally opening her eyes, she stared at the beauty that surrounded her.

She always loved evenings like this, evenings where the faint aroma of autumn leaved rode on the backs of soft southern winds. She loved the trees and the sounds they made. Listening to them helped her relax even more. After a moment, she turned toward Miley and looked at her almost as a stranger might.

God, she looked good. Even after all this time.

Lilly watched Miley as she reached for a rope that hung in the water. She began to pull it, and despite the darkening sky, Lilly saw the muscles in her arm flex as she lifted the cage from the water. She let it hang over the river for a moment and shook it, letting most of the water escape. After setting the trap on the dock, Miley opened it and began to remove the crabs one by one, placing them into a bucket.

Lilly started walking toward her then, listening to the crickets chirp, and remembered a lesson from childhood. She counted the number of chirps in a minute and added twenty-nine. Sixty-seven degrees, she thought as she smiled to herself. She didn't know if it was accurate, but it felt about right.

As she walked, she looked around and realized she had forgotten how fresh and beautiful everything seemed here. Over her shoulder, she saw the house in the distance. Miley had left a couple of lights on, and it seemed to be the only house around. At least the only one with electricity. Out here, outside the town limits, nothing was certain. Thousands of country homes still lacked the luxury of indoor lighting.

She stepped on the dock and it creaked under her foot. The sound reminded her of a rusty box, and Miley glanced up and winked, then went back to checking the crabs, making sure they were the right size. Lilly walked to the rocker that sat on the dock and touched it, running her hand along the back. She could picture Miley sitting in it, fishing, thinking, reading. It was old and weather-beaten, rough feeling. She wondered how much time Miley spent here alone, and Lilly wondered about her thoughts at times like those.

"It was my daddy's chair," Miley said, not looking up, and Lilly nodded. She saw bats in the sky, and frogs had joined the crickets in their evening harmony.

Lilly walked to the other side of the dock, feeling a sense of closure. A compulsion had driven her here, and for the first time in three weeks the feeling was gone. She'd somehow needed Miley to know about her engagement, to understand, to accept it – she was sure of that now – and while thinking of her, Lilly was reminded of something they'd shared from the summer they were together. With head down, she paced around slowly, looking for it until she found it – the carving. _Miley loves Lilly_, in a heart. Carved into the dock a few days before she'd left.

A breeze broke the stillness and chilled her, making her cross her arms. She stood that way, alternately looking down at the carving and then toward the river, until she heard Miley reach her side. Lilly could feel her closeness, her warmth, as she spoke.

"It's so peaceful here," Lilly said, her voice dreamlike.

"I know. I come down here a lot not just to be close to the water. It makes me feel good."

"I would, too, if I were you."

"Come on, let's go. The mosquitoes are getting vicious, and I'm starved."

**--**

**to be continued**

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End file.
